The Portions We Are
by elliehigginbottom
Summary: So yeah, you kiss her. You take her mouth. Because there was just a bloody war that was fought and won. And people died. And it was her red hair you saw, and her flowery scent that lingered about you as death so gently ripped you apart.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Okay, I'm not exactly sure what this is. I've been reading some really lovely, really dark stories. Post war. And as I sat on my floor, wrapping Christmas presents this formed. It literally shot out of my fingers onto my screen. I can't decide if it should be T or M. So, I'm making it M just to be safe. I almost deleted it, but...here it is anyway.

...

You never meant to hurt her. Bloody Hell, you love the girl. The little Weasley girl, with her red dancing hair and light brown eyes that shone like a candle in the darkest of nights, calling to you. Merlin, if only she had never looked at you like that.

Not the way she used to look at you when she was very young, like some hero. Like some perfect specimen. The way she looked at you after you so gracefully knocked yourself of that high, high pedestal. It was after she was angry with you, after she rolled those stabbing brown eyes at your ignorance; at your being so damn cavalier.

After that, she looked and you knew she really saw you. Saw your craggy and misshapen, lightning bolt scarred soul. And you were terrified. Scared of that beautiful little thing that skipped down the corridors and made all the boys turn their heads. Her smile alone could make a Slytherin go against his nature.

Suddenly, you were chasing her down. She had turned on her heel, and you followed. You followed close. Close enough to smell the flowers that hung about her. To notice that you weren't the only boy laughing at her clever words.

And in the end of it, you caught her. She might have let you, but your pride will only allow it to be the way you see it. You were a teenage boy for Merlin's sake. And you took everything she would give you. And Ginny, Ginny Weasley made you feel like a ruddy teenage boy. As if you were no savior. Like you were some hormonal bloke that was created for the sole purpose of carrying her books to class, and piss if that wasn't one of the best feelings in the world.

And she would look at you with relief in her young eyes. Relief. Not because you were the Chosen One, or the sodding Boy Who Lived, but because when passing by between the classes of a particularly dull day, you would pull her under your arm, and make her laugh. You would kiss her in front of the nauseating Romilda Vane. Some how, Ginny fucking Weasley made you feel like enough.

And you of course feared, since the day you learned your fate, that you would never be enough.

You know she's angry. You know she's absolutely livid with you. She could kill you with one of those ripping gazes she's fixed you with those few times since the battle. You knew the smiles shared in those fleeting moments before the earth shook and you earned your name once more, that this would come. You can't leave a fire alone, unattended too long. It will either burn out or rage wider and higher than ever intended.

And Ginny was fire. And she did both.

You left her too long. Something in her eyes is now empty and hollow when she looks at you. But her anger and hurt burns bright and apparent, lighting the darkness with an uneasy spark. And damn it if you aren't drawn to her blazing warmth. You'll let her flames engulf you. You will stand there and be burned up by her any day.

So that's why you go find her. Days after all of those lost had been buried and mourned. She hasn't spoken to you since. Merlin, she will barely look at you! But you are always looking at her. Your harrowed green eyes drilling holes into her. Burning and branding your name on her white, white skin from the intensity of your gaze alone.

So, you find her in her small bedroom. You don't knock, because you won't listen if she denies your entrance, and you won't risk her charming the door locked. (Although you, yourself lock it behind you) Because this is your life or death. Your throat has been constricting, and breathing is becoming more and more difficult.

You startle her when you enter. Ginny is up off her little iron wrought bed now in a flash, and you look at her. Her long red hair hanging all around her shoulders. Her black sweater and black jeans warning you to stay away. The broken, sad girl.

But you stand there, blocking her door. Not feeling like the fucking hero everyone keeps telling you, you are. Right now you are someone completely different. The man you became, because no one gave you any other choice. And that man is halting her escape, and you know she won't be seventeen for another three months, so unless she wants to throw herself out the window (which she might), she will have to face you.

But you are a fool if you think she's afraid of you, just because she jumped when you came barging into her room. And tears stream down her lightly freckled cheeks as she stalks the few feet to shove you hard in the chest. And there is malice behind her little fists. There is not a word from her mouth, before her open palm cracks across your deserved cheek. You'll take it. You'll take any little thing. Your airway releases an inch.

She reaches for her wand to send some sort of hex your way, but you are grabbing her wrist and with one hard shake, using those muscles that you never meant to earn, her wand is tossed onto the carpet.

Well you grabbed her, which is probably a mistake because now that you're touching her, you certainly can't stop.

She is pressed against the door, and your body is against hers. She is growling and protesting, and struggling against the grip you have on her.

But she's also pulling.

Gripping your buttoned shirt. Pulling you back. She's bloody pulling you back from this wretched darkness that consumes your waking moments.

So yeah, you kiss her. You take her mouth. Because there was just a fucking war that was fought and won. And damn it, people died. And it was her red hair you saw, and her flowery scent that lingered about you as death so gently ripped you to apart.

Her lips are frustrated and marvelous under yours. Now you're really breathing again. The vise around your heart slackening. Her lips give against yours, chapped and demanding, and Ginny is kissing you back. She is kissing you back and pulling her hands through your hair. Her rage, fire, and goodness seeping through her, and you lap it up.

"Gin..." you murmur, between savage kisses. You breathe it into her soul. And she whimpers. She bloody whimpers beneath your lips. What are you expected to do with that? So you do exactly what you want to. You grab her and haul her higher against the door. Pressing yourself against her. She has no choice but to hook one leg around your slender hip to keep herself stable.

"Say something," you demand as your tongue presses against her racing pulse point. You can feel her shake her head no, as her nails dig through the cotton of your shoulders. A welcome pain. But you have to hear her say something to you. Her silence has been a new knife to your heart every day. And you're not going to lose her.

Your wandering hands that have been furiously trailing up and down her body, move under her shirt. And her breath hitches as your never satisfied mouth moves down to her exposed collarbone. "Say something," you demand once more, nipping at her bone. Leaving evidence. _And the red mark looks an awful lot like your name. _

She refuses like before, her now swollen lips shut tight. Her supple jaw flexed in concentration. But her hands, her hands tell you otherwise, as they claw and cling to your healing body. Now determined, your mouth returns to her's, and your calloused hand moves down to her knickers; and you demand words again. She does her best to stifle a moan, as her hips buck against your hand. And when your hand skims under the lacy band, her mouth gasps and opens, and you push your tongue past her bared teeth and your fingers farther down that lacy scrap of material.

And you taste blood. You taste her blood in your mouth. The tinge of rust on her saliva. Blood caused by biting her own tongue against the words that were desperately clawing their way from her cold, and broken heart up and out of her long delicate throat to find you. _And the blood tastes an awful lot like your name. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's** **Note:** I didn't plan on continuing this, but the following was part of the original idea. I just liked the finishing line on the first chapter. I've been trying to write on my other story, but I became stuck on this one. So: "write when you can."

...

"Move over, Potter," you hear her impatient voice through your dreamy state. She was back. Opening up your emerald orbs, you see the familiar sight. The fuzzy edged and exhausted Ginny Weasley, in her white nightdress, standing at the edge of your bed. It must be around midnight.

Not needing to respond, you scoot your exhausted body over on the bed, leaving just enough space for her. With her standard huff, she crawls in, under your sheets, under your blankets, and into _your_ bed. But your not surprised. This had been going on for weeks now. Ever since the incident in her bedroom. You left her, feeling as if you made no progress. But that night, around midnight, the words you've grown to love and loathe were uttered, "Move over, Potter."

You were pulled from your solitary sleep at Grimmauld Place, that first night. The only place you could get any true rest these days. You bolted up in bed, your Seeker reflexes having your wand in your hand, and to the intruders throat in seconds.

And when your eyes finally focused, and your heart stopped slamming against your rib cage, you swore you recognized that gasp. And the blurry of your eyes discerned the familiar long head of red hair, and that flowery scent that holds you captive.

"Ginny?" you asked, as you let the girl go, and grappled for your glasses on the night stand.

"Move over, Potter," is all she said, before you felt her sitting on the bed next to you, pushing you over with her body. With your heart still racing, and the adrenaline that was so familiar to your veins, humming, you found yourself a slave to her every whim. You moved over, giving her room, which she used to snuggle down against your pillows.

"What are you doing here?" You asked her, and you really didn't know why you were questioning Ginny Weasley crawling into your bed on her own accord. And you weren't sure you would get an answer anyway, because her eyes were already closed, as if sleeping. "Ginny, does your family know you're here?"

She opened her lips, "Shut up, Harry. I'm so tired."

You didn't say another word. You laid there late into the night, watching her sleeping form. She was so beautiful, caressed by moonlight. Her white night dress making her look ethereal. Some creature God sent down from heaven to remind you of all the things you didn't deserve. She didn't sleep long before her breathing started to pick up, and her once still body started shaking in what could only be a nightmare.

"No, please," she whimpered, eyes shut tight, and her head tossing back and forth on your pillows. Her plea roused you from the trance you were captured in. "Stop...not dead...no..." she pleaded again to the horrors in her mind.

And the noise ripped your heart out. And that instinct deep inside of you, that basic pull, that tells you Ginny Weasley is yours, put you into motion.

Closing the distance between your body and hers, you scooped her up and pulled her to you. Your hero complex in over drive, as the one girl who could undo you; the one girl who refuses your rescue, needed a savior. You only meant to wake her from her haunting dreams. But you found you needn't, because the moment you brought her against your chest, her small hand came to rest above your beating heart, and she immediately quieted.

She cuddled herself against your always tense body, and suddenly you weren't tense anymore. As she nestled her head against your shoulder, the surprising pull of comfortable sleep finally returned to your bones. It was the first night, since the Battle of Hogwarts that you slept through the night.

When you woke the next morning she was gone.

You didn't mention it to her the next day. She was still refusing to talk to you. But you started to notice things. Things like she didn't look as ragged as she had for the last few weeks. The dark circles beneath her eyes, fading. You wondered if she'd been having those nightmares every night, and if your shared bed had brought her the rest she needed.

You also notice that she follows you -everywhere.

Not like a puppy dog waiting for some attention. Merlin knows, she doesn't want your attention. Her cool indifference had yet to change. But if you're in the sitting room playing a game of wizard's chess with Ron, then she is in the sitting room reading a book. If you go to the kitchen to have a snack, then she goes to the kitchen for some tea. A walk through the gardens means she'll be sitting in the sun, soaking up the heat. She always seems cold these days.

You've even accidentally overheard Molly talking about it with Arthur. Worried that Ginny is never going to pull herself out of her sad state. That Molly can't figure out if Ginny loves or hates Harry. You can't really either.

But she comes to your bed every night, and you both fight your demons that haunt you. She won't let you touch her, but she always ends up in your arms by morning's light.

So, "Move over, Potter," is a phrase you love because that means she still needs you, and you loathe it, because September is fast approaching, and you will cease to hear them again. And as you lay in bed, next to the girl you love, thinking of absolutely broken things are, you are surprised to feel her move herself into your arms.

"Ginny?" you ask, quietly. Worried you will scare her away. Your arms locking tight around her slight frame. She would have to fight you off, now that she's here.

"Harry..." she trembles, and you can tell that she's crying. In a breath, you are pulling her under you, securing her, so you can be sure no one can take her away from you. She lets you and she cries on as you take her face in your hands.

"Talk to me, Ginny," you implore, as you set about kissing the tears away from her cheeks. Her hands gripping the front of your shirt.

"Please Harry," she begs, pulling you closer.

"Anything Gin. I'll do anything. Just talk to me. Tell me what you need," you whisper desperately in the dark. And you would. Her sad brown eyes holding you captive, as she writhes underneath you. And then her small hands come to the hem of your shirt and she's pulling it up over your head. The moment the material clears your head, her lips are on yours.

She kisses you hard and desperate. "Make it stop Harry," she whimpers, "Make the emptiness go away."

And you'll do anything.

That night she gives herself to you. She holds onto you tightly, as you do your best to fill the void. Your gazes locked deep into the night. Neither of you the children you used to be. You have been battering a much more fragile part of her heart, and she in turn is holding onto a piece of yours that could crumble your entire being. And when your hard length pushes through her precious virtue, you lips whisper praises that she has only been yours.

And when you wake the next morning she is gone.


End file.
